The Reach, At the Edge of the Dornish Marches — Near the First Wooden Fortress
The road twisted through the hills, flanked by thorny underbrush and gnarled trees. The sound of boots and hooves pounding against the hardened soil echoed across the vale. The royal banners—red and black, crowned dragons on crimson—fluttered in the wind above a mass of steel and mail. And then, rising out of the mist ahead, came the first of them.
A fortress of wood and sharpened stakes, hastily built but formidable in size. Watchtowers lined its flanks. A drawbridge spanned a dry ditch, and over it flew the banner of House Peake.
Prince Aegon rode beside his father and the Hand of the King, his brow furrowed.
"What is this? Why waste men and timber on such a place?" Aegon asked. "They cannot think to stop us with wood and palisades."
Brynden Rivers, cloaked in black and riding pale-masked, answered in his cool, level voice. "They do not mean to stop us, only to slow us. Stall our march, bleed our numbers, stretch our provisions. This is their scheme… and I daresay only the beginning of it."
King Maekar I grunted, his expression dark beneath his steel helm. "Aye. I've seen this before."
He turned his head slightly, addressing both his son and his Hand. "After the Redgrass Field, Daemon Blackfyre's remnants fled into the Dornish Marches. They built fortifications just like this one—one after another—trying to draw us into a slow death. It failed then. It will fail now."
He spurred his destrier forward and raised his mace high for all to see.
"We break this one quickly and utterly," he barked. "Let none flee. If there is one, there will be more behind it. Better we burn this rot at the root than let it fester."
The Siege Begins
Trumpets blared and drums sounded. The royal host fanned out across the hills. Archers rained arrows upon the battlements while sappers crept forth with torches and oil. Brynden's ravens flew in dark spirals above the fray, their cries piercing through the din of war.
Prince Aegon led a charge from the eastern slope, hacking down Peake men who dared to meet him beyond the ditch. Brynden oversaw the flank, dispatching crossbowmen and directing troops with ruthless precision.
The drawbridge collapsed under fire, and Maekar himself led the final push—his mace smashing through shield and helm alike. The gates cracked and splintered, then burst open in flame and fury.
The fighting was short and brutal. Half the Peake men lay dead in the mud, many more cut down as they tried to flee. A few survivors slipped through hidden trails and vanished toward the south.
Aftermath
The Targaryen banners rose above the smoldering wreckage of the first fortress. Maekar stood among the corpses, his armor streaked with blood and soot, and muttered:
"One down."
Brynden, ever watchful, scanned the southern hills. "They run to the next," he said. "We must not give them time to dig in again."
Prince Aegon wiped his blade clean, jaw tight with focus. "Then we ride."
The war drums beat anew as the royal host prepared to pursue, the road now clearer—but still far from won.